


Grab An End, Pull Hard (and Make a Wish)

by King_and_Lionheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Stanford, Violence, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_and_Lionheart/pseuds/King_and_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has big plans for his future with Dean, but just when it seems like things might be going his way, a hunt gone wrong leaves John in the wind, Dean hurt and Sam facing a future that isn't what he'd hoped it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grab An End, Pull Hard (and Make a Wish)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic (take it easy on me!) and I don't have a beta, so apologies if there are issues, I tried my best to edit/proofread it. 
> 
> In this fic Dean is 21 and Sam is 17.

John has been gone for going on three days. The motel Sam and Dean are holed up in smells; it's an awful mixture of mold, bleach and more bodily secretions than they care to think of. It being the middle of summer in a humid backwater town in Georgia only makes matters worse. That, along with a barely functioning air conditioning unit. It leaves their little shit hole sweltering at a balmy eighty-nine degrees. Dean is definitely lying when he says the climate doesn't bother him a bit after Sam complains about the sweat dripping down his back for the fiftieth time that evening. He'd be hard pressed to give an answer on which of the two things is more irritating. But at least one of them, he can change. He rolls over, cringing as his sticky back peels away from the rough blanket on the bed. 

"Sammy." He sing-songs with a smirk. Sam hates when he does that. Current evidence reinforces that knowledge. Sam shakes his head minutely and keeps reading. "C'mon Sammy. Sammy." He keeps it up. "'M gonna keep going 'til you quit ignoring me."

Sam side-eyes him and turns the page. 

"It's summer, Sam. School's out." Dean needlessly reminds. Sam shakes his head. He adds a huff this go around. "'Mkay." Dean bites his lower lip and stretches; he can see Sam watching him. Dean bites back a smirk and stands up to stretch. "Well, if you're in geek boy mode, 'm gonna get some exercise. Might as well with how sweaty I am already." Dean drops and starts with push ups. Easy as pie and he knows Sam is watching. 

To Dean, Sam's love of his shoulders and back is just as inexplicable as fact that he desires Dean at all. Not that Dean thinks lowly of himself, at least not when it comes to his looks. But it's _Sam_. The same Sam who grinds his teeth every time their father opens his mouth. The Sam whose eyes are constantly rolling just because Dean exists. The Sam who grumbles about hunting, dirty motel rooms, diner food and even the Impala. So, suffice it to say, a couple of months ago when Sam got home from school, threw his backpack carelessly on the floor, stalked toward a confused and automatically defensive Dean and pinned him against the wall as he laid a bruising kiss on his mouth, it was something of a shock. A shock that Dean managed to overcome in five seconds flat after Sam paused his attack and growled _‘Kiss me back, jerk.’_ Dean got with the program. He shoved Sam back onto the squeaky motel bed that Sam despised so much and pinned him; just hard enough to hurt, but not the bad kind of pain. Never that, because it’s Sammy and he’d rather cut off one of his own limbs than hurt him. He’s lost in his head reminiscing, so he’s caught off guard, much to his chagrin, letting out an embarrassing _‘Oomph’_ when Sam pushes him over with his foot. 

“C’mon,” Sam taunts. “I’m not ignoring you now.”

Dean smirks and pushes himself up slowly. He licks his lips, slowly pulling the lower one into his mouth. He could drive Sam crazy in his sleep by now; knows his brother inside and out, better than he knows himself, that’s for sure. “So?” He drawls lazily, he turns his back on Sam and wipes his face with a towel.

“So, you have about two seconds to do something about it or-,” Sam’s words are swallowed down by Dean’s mouth on his. 

Dean is rough, almost punishing, when they’re together. As if that somehow makes the fact that they’re brothers less of a _thing_. Sam pulls back after a moment just to catch his breath. Dean’s eyebrow quirks up and he pushes Sam back on the bed. Sam has to take deep breaths and will himself not to come from Dean’s expression alone. Dean whips Sam’s shorts and boxers off before Sam even realizes what he’s up to and Sam groans loud and hard as Dean swallows him down effortlessly, which is really quite an accomplishment. Dean moans, the vibrations shoot through Sam and he goes taut, toes curling, hands scrabbling to grab hold of the blanket beneath him. 

“Dean,” He mutters breathlessly. “Oh, god, D-, I’m,” 

“Not yet,” Dean growls after pulling off. “Haven’t had my fun with you yet,”

Sam can’t stifle the whimper that escapes his lips as Dean jacks him off, strong, sure strokes, twisting just right at the tip. “Fuck,” Sam arches into Dean’s touch. “Dean, fuck me,”

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you, Sammy-,” Dean swallows him down again and slides a finger inside, relishing the keening sounds that it pulls from Sam’s throat. When Dean starts deep-throating Sam, he can tell if he doesn’t slow down, it won’t take long, but Sam sounds so hot and Dean just wants to hear more. He doubles his efforts scissoring two fingers inside Sam while he’s at it and Sam comes down his throat; he swallows it all, milking Sam until he’s absolutely spent, twitching as his nerves are overstimulated.

Sam takes a few deep breaths and stares at the ceiling. “Fuck...”

Dean crawls over Sam, his body covering him like a blanket and kisses him. He opens his mouth, allowing Sam’s tongue to roam inside his own, tasting his own come. Sam takes full advantage, it’s unlike Dean to indulge in this kind of kissing and even more unlike him when he brings his hand up to cup Sam’s cheek. Sam pulls back a little, eyes searching Dean’s, hoping for a hint as to what’s going on in his brother’s crazy mind. 

“Dean?”

“I just-” Dean cuts himself off, he isn’t ready to put what he’s feeling into words so he kisses Sam again, his hand slowly traces over his hip and thigh until his fingers brush at Sam’s hole. 

Sam encircles Dean’s wrist and holds it steady. “I’m good. I just want you Dean, right now.” When Dean starts to shake his head Sam grabs his chin and holds his gaze. “Right. Now.”

Never able to deny Sam, Dean slicks himself up and slowly pushes inside. It’s warm and tight and amazing. He’ll never get used to being able to have Sam this way, no matter how many times they’re together. He kisses Sam softer than he’s ever done. Partly to distract him; Dean knows Sam likes it when he’s more gentle at times. But mostly, Dean just _wants_ to. To show Sam that he isn’t just scratching an itch. That he’s not just blowing off steam with a convenient body. “Sammy,” He whispers roughly into Sam’s neck as he slowly rolls his hips, burying himself completely in his brother. 

Sam groans and digs his fingers into Dean’s hips. His hole stings and he feels so _full_ and it’s almost too much, but too much is just what he wants right now. And he wants it to be too much for Dean, too. He wants to break down the last of Dean’s barriers, paltry as they may be at this point. He can’t stand for him to have any and he can see in Dean’s eyes, tonight, it could happen. And it _has_ to happen, because Sam has plans and if Dean isn’t all in, it just won’t work. Sam groans loudly as Dean slams into him, bringing him back to the moment. 

“Boring you, Sam?” Dean drawls and nips at Sam’s ear for good measure. 

“N-, no, God.” Sam chokes out as Dean snaps his hips faster. He buries a hand in Sam’s hair takes a fistful of it and tugs.

“Sammy,” He says, voice rough and choked as he slows his thrusts, sliding in and out nice and slow, making sure to hit Sam’s prostate every time.

Sam wraps his legs around his brother and bites his lip, pulling Dean deeper, causing Dean to grind out Sam’s name again; he whispers it, growls it, as if he knows no other word. 

“You’ve got me,” Sam says, he knows exactly what Dean is thinking. Knows that he’s just waiting for the time to come when Sam shrugs him off for something else, something better. He still thinks Sam will get tired of this. Of him. He’ll suddenly realize how fucked up it is. But Sam knows exactly what they’re doing and he’ll never be over Dean. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t just want him in every way he knew how. “Never giving this up, Dean,” He says. 

Dean tenses, holding on to Sam tighter as he fucks into him and comes hard, with a low drawn out moan. It’s enough to send Sam over the edge again, coming on their stomachs with Dean’s name on his tongue. After a taking a moment to catch his breath, Dean pulls out and falls to the bed next to Sam, pulling him close as he wraps his arm around his shoulder. Sam smiles contentedly. He knows Dean’s given in if he’s willing to cuddle after. He never has before. 

“Dean,” Sam says, but Dean places a finger over his lips. 

“We don’t have to say it to know.” Dean says.

Sam knows he’s right. He knows they both know exactly how they feel about each other and right now, when Dean is so open and vulnerable, he knows better than to push. So he nestles in, closer to Dean, kisses his chest and sighs.

After a moment snuggled close together, Dean starts to get twitchy. “Alright, that's it. Time for a shower.” He announces. 

Sam grins and rubs at the mess on Dean’s stomach for a second before Dean bats his hand away. They both stand and stretch and head for the bathroom.

“What, you think you’re invited?” Dean asks. Sam falters for just a minute but then bumps into Dean’s shoulder on purpose. 

“‘Course I am.” He says with an air of confidence he certainly doesn’t feel. 

Dean mumbles under his breath something Sam can’t quite make out, but he pushes Sam into the bathroom in front of him and orders him to start the water. They take their time; the water doesn’t even get remotely cold though, tepid as it is, but it still manages to be refreshing. To Sam’s amazement, Dean doesn’t complain when he starts washing him off, dragging his ever growing hands all over Dean’s soapy stomach and chest. Dean leans back on the tile of the shower easily and watches Sam with hooded eyes; tired and satiated, but still, there’s a spark of desire. Sam smirks when Dean hardens easily as he washes him off. He drops to his knees and goes down on Dean, slow and lazy and maddeningly teasing. Dean moans as he tenses, hand wrapped in Sam’s wet hair, come shooting down his throat. Sam groans in appreciation and swallows it all down. By the time he’s finished licking every drop of come from Dean, his knees ache and Dean’s legs are shaking so badly he slumps against Sam for support as soon as he stands.

Once Dean is steady again they lazily make their way out of the shower, drying off and slipping on boxers, but no more, because even though it’s almost dark outside, it’s still hot as hell. 

They settle on the couch watching Die Hard on the crappy motel TV, mouthing the words together that they know by heart. Sam curled into Dean’s side at some point and Dean smirked at him but didn’t rib him, which is big. Sam is almost asleep as Dean cards his hand through Sam’s floppy hair as he leans his head back on the back of the couch, eyes closed. 

The familiar rumble of John’s truck pulls Dean back from the brink of sleep and he sits up quickly, effectively rousing Sam as well. 

“What?” Sam asks groggily as he blinks to clear his vision.

“Dad.” Dean informs, sounding less pleased about his father’s return than Sam has ever heard. 

“He’s s’posed to call,” Sam mutters.

“Yeah, well.” Dean looks around, eyes quickly taking in the state of the room, making sure there’s nothing incriminating. “Get some shorts on.”

Sam rolls his eyes. It’s not as if being in boxers, especially in this heat, is anything abnormal. “Fine,” He hauls himself up and roots around in his duffle until he finds something suitable and heads off to the bathroom. 

At the click of the lock on the door, Dean turns to face it and schools his features as he takes a swig of beer. He’s still not used to lying like this. It’s a lucky thing that John forced him to develop such a good poker face over the years. 

When he turns to face John he blinks in surprise. John is dirty and scuffed up, no blood that Dean can see, and for that he’s glad. But it’s the look on John’s face that causes Dean to take a step back. It’s this strange mix of expressions he’s all too familiar with, having seen it many times on the faces of random men in bars. Men that want nothing more than to beat his face to bloody pulp after he’s taken them for all they have in a game or two of pool and guys that would love nothing more than to shove him against an alley wall and fuck him. He’s seen both expressions on his John’s face before, though not simultaneously and they were definitely never directed toward him. 

“Dad..?” He tries cautiously. Another step back for John’s step forward.

When Sam steps out from the bathroom, both John and Dean’s head snap his direction. Dean looks terrified and John, well, Sam is no stranger to his father’s glare, but this is something else entirely. He opens his mouth, not even knowing what he’s about to say, but just as it registers that John is moving toward him Dean is in front of him and inexplicably shoving him into the closet. Sam blames his shock for letting that happen in the first place and he hears something heavy slide in front of the now locked door. He wastes no time in beating on the thing and yelling for Dean to let him out. 

Dean turns his back on the closet to find John right in his face. His instinct to get Sam away was so strong, he didn’t question it for a second and when his dad’s hand grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls back, hard, his first thought isn’t about the pain or what the fuck is happening, it’s how glad he is that Sam is safe, that he’s trained to act on his instincts without question. “Cristo,” He says, though he knows the door was salted. 

John smirks and it’s ugly and hard and there’s not a hint of the actual man behind those cold eyes. 

Sam quits pummeling the door in short order, straining to hear what’s going on in the room. He can hear Dean, but nothing from his father. Then he hears the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and the pained groan from his brother has him uselessly beating on the door again. He hears Dean trying to reason with John, pleading with him to stop. Furniture falling or scraping on the floor as they scuffle. John groans a time or two and Sam knows Dean is a better fighter than he is himself, but John trained Dean, John knows every move he might make and he’s got experience and a good twenty pounds on Dean. 

The fighting seems to stop after what feels like hours and he hears Dean groan again and then he’s saying _‘No’_ and _‘Please, don't,’_ and sobbing out _‘What the fuck, Dad,_ please _’_ and that has Sam beating on the door until his knuckles are bloody and tears are streaming down his face but the door just won’t budge. Dean cries out again as Sam hears a dull thud and then again within a minute, this awful, pained sound wrenched from his chest and Sam clenches his eyes shut and grinds his teeth and swears. Yells that he’s going to fucking kill his father and truly means it. After a few minutes of muffled groans and scuffing everything goes quiet. Too quiet. Sam can’t stand it and he beats the door again with his bloodied hands and curses. Then a door slams and he jerks back and pauses to listen. He hears a pained gasp that’s clearly Dean. He yells again at Dean to let him out, curses Dean and John, babbles as he questions if Dean is okay and begs for an answer. Then, _finally_ whatever blocks the closet door is pushed away slowly, eliciting another pained sound from Dean. 

“Sam,” Dean says. It’s raspy and rough and he coughs after as he holds his bruised throat and slides down to the floor in front of the closet. 

“Dean!” Sam perks up quickly. “Let me out!” He demands. 

“I will. Jus-, just hold your horses.”

“Right the fuck now!”

“Listen, I’m, I’m gonna unlock the door but you gotta promise me something before I do.”

“Goddammit, Dean!”

“Promise, or you’ll spend the night in there,” Dean threatens.

“Fine!”

“‘Kay.” Dean pauses and takes a deep breath, wincing at the pain that spikes through his body. “Once I unlock it, you count to ninety and then come out. Not a second before.”

“What? Why? Quit fucking around with me Dean and open the door!”

“I mean it, Sam.” Dean says quietly. He can feel Sam slump against the other side of the door.

“Fine.” Sam relents. 

“Okay. Gonna unlock it now.” Dean says wearily as he pushes himself up and off of the floor. 

Sam hears a click and wants so badly to rush out that second that bites his tongue so hard it bleeds. But he made a promise to Dean and he can’t break it. So he starts counting in his head.

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eightteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Sixty-three. Sixty-four. Sixty-five. Sixty-six. Sixty-seven. Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine. Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two. Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Seventy-five. Seventy-six. Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight. Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eight-five. Eighty-six. Eighty-seven. Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety._

He steels himself and opens the closet door. The creaking of the hinge in the otherwise oppressing silence makes him twitch. The room is a disaster. Chairs and tables are upended, there are new dents in the wall. Sam’s breath catches in his throat when he catches sight of the blood on the floor. A couple of small pools of it and some smears here and there, nothing life threatening but enough to indicate that whoever it came from might need some help. One of John’s knives is lying nearby; it’s bloody, too. He doesn’t even pause to wonder if the blood is Dean’s. The door to the bedroom is smeared with blood and it’s firmly shut and locked. 

“Dean, let me in.” Sam says, his forehead thunks against it as he twists the handle again.

“Go away, Sam,” Dean says. His voice is laced with pain and exhaustion. 

“No. Let me in or I’ll break it down.” 

“Give me a minute,” Dean’s voice is so close to pleading that Sam can’t help but acquiesce. 

Now that he has a minute to breathe, Sam’s mind is reeling, trying to put together just what happened. Looking out the window, he sees that John’s truck is gone once again, thankfully. After a couple of minutes, the bedroom door opens and Dean slowly makes his way out. Sam sucks in a deep breath when he sees his brother and immediately begins cataloguing his injuries. A split lip, bruises laced around his throat, a cut across his cheekbone with an accompanying bruise wrapping around the outside of his left eye. His left hand is covered in blood and still dripping and when he turns a little to head to the bathroom, there is blood visible in his hair, dripping down his neck. 

“Dean,” Sam rasps. 

Dean shakes his head gingerly. “You just gonna stand there and stare or you gonna help?” He asks, wincing at the pain in this throat. 

Sam follows him into the bathroom, grateful not to be shut out. He opens the first-aid kit and gently guides Dean to the toilet and pushes him down. Dean’s energy seems to be nonexistent and he’s letting Sam take the lead. Sam takes Dean’s bloodied hand and inspects it. He purses his lips angrily when he sees a stab wound going straight through the middle of it. “Dean, what the hell happened?” He asks quietly as he lets water run over Dean’s hand, clearing most of the blood away. 

Dean’s brows are furrowed, but he doesn’t show any other outward signs of pain or distress as Sam gently prods his hand to check the integrity of the bones. “Something went wrong on the hunt.” Dean says simply. 

“Wrong like..?” Sam begins putting pressure on Dean’s hand to get the bleeding to stop completely. 

“Dunno. A curse probably. He wasn’t himself until…’til just before he took off.”

“So he’s okay now?” Sam queries. 

Dean huffs. “I don’t know, Sam,” 

“He just...I wanna-” Sam is practically vibrating with rage.

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts sharply. “It wasn’t him.” 

Sam bites his tongue and wraps Dean’s hand tightly and moves on to clean his lip and cheek. His lip has stopped bleeding and isn’t bad enough to even scar, but his cheek is still bleeding sluggishly. It’s deep. “I think you need a couple of stitches here.” He says. 

“Whatever.” Dean turns his face so Sam will be at a better angle for it. 

Sam works quickly and silently, bottom lip pulled into his mouth as he concentrates and doing the best job he can, hoping it won’t scar too bad. “There,” He says when he’s finished. He looks at Dean and finds him too pale and covered in a light sheen of sweat. He’s shaking a little and Sam curses himself for not thinking to give him something for the pain, or checking the rest of him for other injuries that he could be hiding. He shoves three pills and a cup of water in Dean’s hands then steps behind Dean to look at the back of his head. Dean’s hair is matted with blood and Sam can’t see if it’s serious or not. He wraps a towel around Dean’s shoulders and pours water over his hair to clear the mess up. The gash is bleeding a lot, as head wounds are wont to do; Sam sighs. It could use stitches, but he doesn’t want to shave Dean’s head, not that Dean would let him. “I really should stitch this.” He says needlessly as he puts pressure on it with a bunch of gauze. 

Dean shifts a little, the only outward sign of the pain Sam is causing. After a few minutes the bleeding has stopped and Sam thinks it’s actually not too bad looking now that blood isn’t pouring from it. 

“Okay. What else?” He asks kneeling in front of Dean, placing a warm hand on his knee, which is shaking a little, just like the rest of him. 

“Nothing, ‘m good. Can you give me a minute?”

“I don’t believe you. And I’m not leaving you in here to lick your wounds in private. What else?”

“Sam,” Dean sighs wearily. 

“Take your shirt off.” Sam demands. 

“Jesus. Pushy bitch.” Dean mutters, wincing as he pulls his t-shirt off with a little help from Sam. 

“Fuck, Dean.” Sam cringes sympathetically at the bruising on Dean’s ribs. He reaches out, hand lightly prodding at Dean’s ribs, when he ghosts over a particularly dark bruise Dean hisses and pulls back. “Broken?” Sam knows his brother can tell the difference at this point. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. 

“Any trouble breathing?” Sam asks.

“Not really.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow. “And your throat?”

“Not bad enough to worry about.” Dean says roughly. 

Sam drags his hands roughly through his hair and sighs. “Dean,” He says nervously. “It-, it sounded like…I know what I heard out there. And I know what he was hunting, what she was making people do.” His stomach squirms and he feels like throwing up but Dean is on the toilet so he swallows hard and stares at the pile of bloodied bandages on the floor. The smell of blood and sweat and come still hangs heavy in the air.

Dean shudders and squeezes the bridge of his nose with his good hand. “I’m okay. It...it wasn’t him. Dad,” Dean’s mouth snaps shut and he moves so fast, Sam isn’t sure what’s happening until the toilet lid is up and Dean is vomiting into the bowl. 

Sam kneels by his brother and rubs a soothing hand on his back, at a loss. When Dean slumps and leans back, Sam flushes the toilet and sits next to his brother. 

“I think you should go to a clinic.” Sam says quietly. “Make sure…just-, make sure you’re okay.”

Dean rubs his face and winces as he stands. “I said I’m fine.”

“But he didn’t use a-,”

“Sam! Jesus, drop it!” Dean snaps and begins pacing back and forth in the motel room. 

“Dean!” Sam warns, following. 

“Sam, I swear to god, if you don’t shut your mouth.” He threatens. 

“No, watch it!” Sam grabs Dean and pulls him away from the broken glass and the blood on the floor. 

Dean rips his arm out of Sam’s grasp and shakes his head. “Fuck!” He mutters burying his hand in his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He yells and hits his own head with his fist over and over. 

“Dean, please,” Sam pleads. He’s never seen Dean so worked up before. 

“I found your letter.” Dean grits out. 

“What?” Sam asks as he freezes where he stands. 

“First-aid kit was in your duffel. God, Sam...were you ever gonna say anything?” He asks, looking broken. “You come home and just...start all this shit between us and all the while you’re getting ready to leave?” 

“No! No, that’s not it at all!”

Dean just smiles sadly and wipes at his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. No, this is good.” He nods to himself. 

“Dean, let me explain, please.”

“You don’t need to. This is better. You go...have your normal life and get out of this mess. That’s the best thing,”

“I want you to come with me! I-, I want _us_ to get out of here. I just-,”

“Did you sleep with me so I’d go with you? Did you think that would what, rope me in?”

“I would never do that, Dean.” Sam says evenly. “I always wanted you, ever since I remember having those kinds of feelings. I didn’t even know about Stanford when this started.”

“When do you start?”

“When do I-? I’m not going! Not without you.”

“Yes you are. You’re going or so help me...you and I, we’re not doing this anymore. I should’ve never...it’s finished okay? You’re going to school and I’m going to keep hunting with Dad. If...if he even shows his face again.”

“He’ll come back, Dean.” Sam says quietly. “Nothing has to change. Please,”

“Already has changed, Sam.” Dean finishes his beer and all but slams the bottle down. “If you care about me, promise you’ll go. Promise you’ll get out of this godforsaken mess.”

“You can come with me. Both of us can-,”

“No. _We_ can’t. I can’t. This is it for me. I’m a hunter, it’s who I am. And somebody has to have Dad’s back. It oughta be me. I’m okay with that. But you- I can’t think of anything worse than draggin’ you down with us. So promise me, right now.” Dean’s eyes burn with intensity as he holds Sam’s gaze. 

“Dean,” Sam chokes, his voice is raw with emotion and his eyes well with tears.

“Please,” Dean begs, breath hitching. He’s never let himself be so vulnerable before, not with anyone. But here, now in this motel room disgusting and destroyed, just like him, he has to. He has to get Sam to see and to go. Nothing else matters.

“Dad will never let me.”

And with that, Dean breathes easier. Sam’s given in. “He can’t stop you. I’ll get you there, don’t worry.”

Sam nods and wipes his nose and takes a deep breath. “This isn’t what was supposed to happen,” He says brokenly, sounding more like a little boy than he has in years.

Dean pulls him in for a hug, ignoring the protest from his battered body and holds him tight. Their bodies shake with choked down emotion, neither of them dare to voice the pain, no matter how acute and real the ache deep in their chests is. Without saying a word, they know the other feels it, too. The air between them is humid and heavy; they cling to each other as if this is goodbye, right here and now, and really, they’re not wrong.


End file.
